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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28274145">1 out of 10 couples (meet on the job)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/furiously/pseuds/furiously'>furiously</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - No Powers, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimes &amp; Criminals, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani is an Incurable Romantic, M/M, Meet-Cute, art thief Joe, assassin nicky, meeting at a gala because it's the best trope, tiny cameo from forger Booker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:54:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,748</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28274145</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/furiously/pseuds/furiously</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>His pale eyes are unwavering on Joe’s, the sphinx-like smile still lingering at the edges of his mouth, and in a sudden flash of insight, as though the truth were a silver ribbon connecting them, Joe </i>knows.<br/><i>"That's not your real name, is it?"</i></p><p>International art thief Yusuf al-Kaysani goes to a fundraising gala and meets the man of his dreams. It gets a little more complicated from there.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>369</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Secret Santa Fics</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1 out of 10 couples (meet on the job)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/scornandivory/gifts">scornandivory</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the TOG Discord Server 2020 Secret Santa! Happy holidays one and all! And happy holidays, scornandivory!! 💖🎄<br/>(Summary and tags edited after posting.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>With a practised movement, Yusuf al-Kaysani reaches out and swipes a glass of champagne off a passing tray, flashing a smile at the waitress as she passes him by. Delicate flute cradled in one hand, he slowly circles the perimeter of the big ballroom. It’s December, so predictably, the place has been done up in festive gold, white and silver, with giant fake Christmas trees dotted around the walls at regular intervals. There’s a band in one corner, playing listless jazz renditions of Christmas songs.</p><p>The room is a sea of high end tailoring. For a couple of minutes he amuses himself studying the cut of the tuxes that pass him by and pinpointing which fashion house they came from. Most of the women are wearing jewels that - although <em> his </em>special area is art, not gems - are probably worth somewhere in the quintuple digits. Booker would probably know. It’s exactly the kind of painted-by-numbers high society event he’s been to dozens of times before. His host for the evening, a Mr. Ogilvie, is a stinking rich businessman, conservative, and, ostensibly, philanthropist. Hence this fundraising spectacle, complete with a charity auction to take place at nine. </p><p>Unfortunately, Mr. Ogilvie fancies himself something of an exotic art connoisseur. Even more unfortunately, some of the pieces in his collection are looted - among them a beautiful bronze casting from the former Kingdom of Benin.</p><p>Fishing his phone out of his pocket, Joe pulls up the blueprint of the building and looks it over one more time. He’s got the relevant bits pretty much memorized by now, but as Booker would say, it never hurts to be thorough. It’s always risky doing these kinds of jobs with the owner at home. Still, it’s a large house. He’s had worse odds. </p><p>Looking at this crowd, though, he’s almost starting to regret letting Booker talk him into going to the party. His <em> plan </em>had been to go a few days in advance, scale the wall, slip in through a window, do a quick recon, and then slip back out the way he came. Dead of night, nobody around, easy peasy. But Booker had been between jobs and bored and had practically pounced on the prospect of something to do, even if it was just a party invitation and getting Joe’s name onto a guest list. In the end, Joe hadn’t had the heart to insist. </p><p>It’s not that Joe isn’t good at mingling - he’s fantastic at it. He loves to talk. He can carry a conversation on art in three languages and flirt in five. He has absolutely no doubt that he could charm the proverbial pants off every bored, rich person in here. The problem is just this: he doesn’t like them.</p><p>Booker was right about one thing, though: it <em> was </em>a lot less effort than breaking in.</p><p>As he makes slow circuits around the room, stopping occasionally to make the kind of charming, empty small talk that’s expected at a gig like this, he catches appreciative looks from several of the women and a couple of the men, and he allows himself to wink at a couple of them. They have so few joys in life, after all, and it’s always good to know that his efforts are appreciated. Yusuf is wearing perfectly tailored burgundy with black lapels, and since it appears he’s going to be forced to say it himself, he looks good. It isn’t <em> inappropriate </em>for a black tie event - he may be here to rob the host, but he’s not a Philistine. But he can be mature enough to admit that he may, just possibly, be showing off a little. In his defense, he’d hoped for a younger crowd. </p><p>Andy would tell him he’s being childish. They’ve had this conversation before. No matter how well concealed his real name and identity are behind disguises and pseudonyms and the layers on layers of encryption he cloaks himself in online, standing out is <em> always </em> a risk in their line of work. But Joe could never resist preening a little. There’s a reason his alias, on the clandestine forums of his special trade, is <em> al-tayyib</em>. He is good. In fact, he’s one of the best. More importantly, he’s one of the few people in this business who use their skillset <em> for </em> good. If he also happens to have a few European masterpieces in his house, well. A guy’s gotta have a <em> little </em>fun.</p><p>Speaking of fun. </p><p>Weaving casually between the mingling guests, he makes his way to the raised podium where the items on offer at tonight’s charitable auction are displayed for their prospective buyers to admire. He was handed a rather lavish leaflet with photos and descriptions as he entered, but he might as well pass the time by indulging his professional curiosity for a few minutes. Sipping politely at his champagne flute, he gives the assortment of statuettes and paintings a slow once-over. </p><p>To the credit of his host, most of them are actually quite valuable. Not as valuable as the starting prices in the leaflet would indicate, but all the same. If Joe had actually believed that the full proceeds of tonight’s auction would <em> go </em>to charity, it would be pretty respectable. There’s only one obvious forgery - a large painting attributed to Turner - and without getting it out of the frame, he might not have clocked that one if Booker hadn’t told him. It’s good. </p><p>Shifting his glass to his left hand, he checks the time on his phone. Still too early to slip away. This early in the proceedings, the hired security will still be on their guard. The charity auction is due to begin in forty-five minutes, at which time there should be enough people moving around that he can discreetly vanish. (There’s one part of being a gentleman thief that the stories all fail to prepare you for, and that is the waiting.)</p><p>Joe knocks back the rest of his champagne and dives back into the fray.</p><p>He’s just beginning to think he might give up on the whole bronze if he has to hear much more about Tesla when an emcee steps up onto the podium and the slow current of the room comes to a shuffling halt. In the brief, well-mannered confusion, Joe makes his way to the grand stair which leads to the foyer, where a side door which requires an access key will take him to the private parts of the house.</p><p>The universe seems to be smiling on him tonight - the foyer is empty except for the bored college student manning the temporary coat check, and she’s nowhere to be seen. There’s a pair of huge, overladen Christmas trees positioned by the walls on either side of the stairs, one of which provides him with partial cover from the stairs should anyone in the ballroom happen to glance out. Joe unlocks the door and steps through with the confidence of someone who has every reason to be there. A few minutes later he’s standing in the study, looking at the object which brought him here and thanking his lucky stars that he and Booker were right about the poor security - the blind spot left by the single camera in the room is ineptly wide. Joe blows a kiss at the statuette in <em> au revoir</em>, and turns on his heel.</p><p>Exactly seven minutes after he left the party, he’s taking the stairs up from the foyer at an unhurried jog. Just as he’s about to re-enter the ballroom, he freezes.</p><p>There, at the very edge of the crowd, is - without a shadow of a doubt - the most beautiful man Joe has ever seen. He doesn’t know how he could have overlooked him before: his silhouette is devastating. Broad-shouldered and slim, he’s dressed from head to toe in unrelieved black, with gleaming silk detailing. Even his shirt is black. The man’s head is turned, giving Joe a perfect view of a clean jawline, a starkly Roman profile, and dramatically hooded eyes. Yusuf al-Kaysani, professional thief and passionate artist, forgets to breathe. It’s as though the spirits of a thousand artists have reached out through the vastness of space and time and gently turned his head towards their muse. He’s looking at a Byzantine mosaic come to life; a Caravaggio stepped down from the canvas; a Sargent in graphite and ink. </p><p>This absolute vision catches Joe looking at him, and to Joe’s complete wonder, he smiles, inclining his head towards a table close to the wall in invitation. Joe doesn’t need asking twice. He’s done here, technically - the auction has just gotten started now, with the first item just going. He could leave now and have plenty of time to prepare. Or, he could take the time out of his schedule to appreciate a second work of art.</p><p>Joe never could resist a masterpiece.</p><p>He makes his way to the small table and sits, watching the gorgeous brunet weave elegantly around the other tables towards him.</p><p>There’s a bit of a flush to his cheeks, as though he just came in from the cold, and his hair is slightly ruffled. He must have been taking some air on the balcony. It’s not a bad idea, honestly - Joe is beginning to feel decidedly hot under his starched collar, but the most beautiful man in the world looks perfectly cool. </p><p>“Do you mind if I join you?” His voice is pleasantly scratchy and warm, and there is a definite accent to the way he pronounces his words. Joe is fairly sure it’s Italian, and he is absolutely never telling Booker or Andy this, but the sound of it alone makes his heart beat faster. </p><p>“Not at all,” he smiles, gesturing to the seat across from him. The beautiful stranger’s eyes light up with a miniature smile, and he slides into the chair with a self-assured, smooth movement and a soft, “<em>Grazie</em>.” </p><p>Joe lets out a silent breath. Ten years of doing this, ten years of the thrill of the chase, the rush of success, more money than he can easily spend, and the knowledge that he’s doing good with it, and Yusuf al-Kaysani has never been more regretful that he’s about to spend a night on the job.</p><p>“I’m Faraj,” he says, and holds out his hand. “It’s <em> very </em>nice to meet you.” He holds the Italian’s stunning green gaze and smiles through the twinge he feels at offering an alias to such a beautiful man. They may not be leaving together at the end of the evening, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to convey his interest loud and clear. </p><p>“Faraj.” His companion seems to taste the name, an almost secretive smile curling the very corner of his lips. Then he reaches out and takes Joe’s hand. His touch is chilly, but his grip is strong, and the barely-there sensation of callouses sends a thrill skittering down Joe’s spine.</p><p>“Matteo,” he says. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.” His pale eyes are unwavering on Joe’s, the sphinx-like smile still lingering at the edges of his mouth, and in a sudden flash of insight, as though the truth were a silver ribbon connecting them, Joe <em> knows</em>. </p><p>He decides to gamble. </p><p>Before he can chicken out, he leans in a little, conspiratorial, and says, “That’s not your real name, is it?”</p><p>Matteo’s smile widens. Far from being insulted, he looks almost pleased. “No,” he concedes graciously. “It isn’t. But neither is yours.” </p><p>Joe laughs quietly, ducking his head with it. “<em>Touché</em>.” </p><p>“But it’ll do for now, no?” Matteo is looking at him as though the secrets of creation were written in the pattern of his freckles, and Joe feels the hairs at the back of his neck prickle. There are flecks of brown in his sea-green irises. </p><p>“Yeah,” he says quietly, swallowing. His mouth is dry. “Yeah, it’ll do.” </p><p>Matteo nods, the smile gone from his lips now but somehow still lingering around his eyes. Then he blinks, cuts his gaze away towards the podium, and the tension that had been building between them, like an elastic stretching tighter and tighter, suddenly breaks. Joe finds he can breathe again.</p><p>“Are you bidding tonight?” Matteo inclines his head towards where the auctioneer is just banging his gavel on the first item. “It’s in a good cause.”</p><p>Joe huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “Nah. None of these are really worth the asking price.”</p><p>“Really?” Perfect brown eyebrows arch in surprise.</p><p>“Yeah.” He points towards the large seascape in a gilded frame at the middle of the stage. “You see the big one?”</p><p>“The Turner?”</p><p>“That’s what they say, yeah.” Joe is grinning now. “It’s a fake.”</p><p>“<em>No</em>.” Matteo looks genuinely scandalized.</p><p>“Oh, yeah.” Joe nods. “I know a guy who knows the guy who forged it. Back in the 70’s.”</p><p>“<em>Dio santo</em>.” The look on Matteo’s face is one of honest affront. “Does the owner know?”</p><p>Joe shrugs. “Probably. I’d say that’s why he’s getting rid of it. Charitably, of course.” He leans a little closer. “Between you and me, I don’t think he’s planning to donate the proceeds.”</p><p>The look on the other man’s face is surprisingly serious, almost incongruously so. Joe had expected to see his own buoyant cynicism reflected back at him, but he sees nothing of the kind - only sincere disappointment. </p><p>“Well. I suppose I will not be contributing, then,” Matteo says with a displeased quirk of his mouth. He leans back in his chair and crosses his legs, and the material of his perfect suit gleams as he moves. </p><p>Joe swallows, eyes drawn inexorably to where the black fabric stretches over the muscles of his thighs. After a moment, he wrenches them back up. <em> Focus, al-Kaysani</em>. Unfortunately, an appreciation for the finer things in life is a bit of an occupational hazard in his profession.</p><p>“Are you in the art business, then?” Matteo is looking at him sideways, an earnestness to his raised brows that looks <em> almost </em>disingenuous. If Joe hadn’t just seen him display utter sincerity, he would have assumed he was being played.</p><p>“Yeah, I dabble.” He smiles. This is an old familiar deflection, and it comes to his lips as easily as the truth. “I was thinking of going into conservation. Did my Master’s in it.” That much <em> is </em>true. </p><p>“And now?”</p><p>“I collect a little. Nothing as impressive as this,” he chuckles.</p><p>Matteo nods. “I’m an ignoramus when it comes to art. I couldn’t tell a forgery from the real thing if my life depended on it.” He confesses it with another tiny smile. Such a minuscule change of expression should not have the ability to warm up his entire face, but somehow it does. His mouth is perfect, Joe thinks distractedly. The shape of his chin belongs on a Bernini. His hands itch for a piece of paper and a pen.</p><p>They watch the rest of the auction together, but neither of them is particularly paying attention. Joe makes quiet commentary on every piece and many of their fellow party-goers, nurturing a newfound ambition to make Matteo laugh. His full smile is a revelation. Joe knows he will spend an hour with his sketchbook trying to capture it as soon as the job is done tonight. He tries to memorize the plush curve of his lips and the way his smile is just the smallest bit crooked. Joe watches Matteo and Matteo’s green eyes watch Joe in return, and it comes as a surprise to both of them when the last item is sold and the auctioneer puts his gavel down.</p><p>Matteo checks the time on his phone and sighs. “I’m afraid I have to get going now,” he says regretfully, as he slides his phone back into his inner pocket and gets up from his seat. “Loath as I am to cut our conversation short, I have a prior engagement.”</p><p>“Oh.” Joe blinks. He considers for all of a hundredth of a second before deciding to just go for it. “Well,” he says, smiling. “That’s a relief. I’m not free tonight either. I’ve been grieving all evening. Are you doing anything tomorrow?” </p><p>Matteo smiles apologetically, and Joe’s heart sinks. “I live in Italy,” he explains. “I’m only in town for a couple of days. My flight back is tomorrow.”</p><p>“I see.” Joe tries valiantly to conceal his disappointment, but it must shine off of him, because Matteo’s expression gentles.</p><p>“I had expected tonight to be all duty,” he says warmly. “But I had a surprisingly pleasant evening. Thank you.” He looks deep into Joe’s eyes and smiles, and then he turns, swift and decisive, and walks away from him. Looking devastatingly elegant in his suit, he crosses the ballroom floor and jogs lightly down the stair to the foyer, leaving Joe feeling oddly bereft.</p><p>The thing is - Joe has never been good at letting go of a prize once he sets his sights on it. </p><p>It’s a character flaw, probably, but it’s brought him more good than bad thus far, so he’s never been too worried about it. Now, though - now it will be niggling at him, he can already tell. His entire being is already ringing with instinctual denial at the thought that this should have been it; that it should be over so unceremoniously, when he had felt deep in his bones that this meeting was somehow significant, even serendipitous. </p><p>Booker and Andy would tell him he needs to get a grip and also, probably, to get laid, if meeting a handsome man at a party has got him thinking about destiny. For that matter, they’re probably right. But that doesn’t change the wrongness he feels watching Matteo, who’s not called Matteo at all, walk out of his life forever without ever finding out his name. </p><p>Fortunately, he doesn’t have much time to think about it. He has a bronze to steal.</p><p>*</p><p>3 AM finds Joe shimmying out of a window on the second floor of the old brownstone under the light of a waxing December moon, easing it closed behind him, and climbing carefully up a rope to the roof. The statuette is a solid weight in his backpack, where he’s wadded it meticulously in bubble wrap. It’s a bit of a job to climb with the extra kilos, but as far as transporting the spoils goes, this is one of the easier items he’s ever stolen. </p><p>Pulling himself up onto the roof and climbing over the low parapet, he pulls up the rope and coils it together. He pulls his balaclava off, taking a welcome breath of cold night air. Then he takes off his backpack and stuffs the rope and hood into it, before making his way across the roof. There’s a convenient fire escape he plans to make use of, which will save him the inconvenience of having to leave his rappelling gear behind.</p><p>As he comes around a big chimney, some cautious instinct tells him that he should slow down, and he stops, peering into the darkness. A moment later, his eyes catch up with his hindbrain, and he realises there’s somebody else on the roof with him. </p><p>A dark silhouette is crouched, unmoving, against the parapet, facing away. Joe feels himself go still all over. The other has picked a spot on the roof which is almost entirely in shadow, which means Joe can’t quite make out the details, but he can make out the narrow outline of a rifle with a scope. </p><p><em> Shit</em>. </p><p>It’s not helpful, he knows, but his first thought is, <em> Seriously? On my roof? </em> </p><p>Biting back his annoyance – honestly, he <em> was </em>here first – Joe takes a silent step into deeper shadow, sets his burden down, and watches his interloper. </p><p>The sniper doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. He’s taking deep, slow breaths, the only movement the steady rise and fall of his back. Then he goes perfectly still, and Joe has just enough time to think <em> oh</em>, before the gun fires, the silenced retort loud in the quiet. He watches the sniper easily absorb the recoil with a broad shoulder, gloved right hand coming up almost lazily and catching the shell casing as the gun spits it out. </p><p>From a moment to the next, his statuesque stillness melts away. He quickly sits back on his haunches, engaging the safety and unscrewing the silencer with trained efficiency, removing what looks like a low tripod from the underside of the gun, then shoving everything into a backpack of his own and zipping it up. </p><p>It’s frightening on a rational level - from where Joe is standing he can’t see whatever the man was aiming for, but it doesn’t take a genius to work out what just happened. But there’s something strangely fascinating about observing another trained professional at work. He watches the sniper slip the casing into a pocket and stand up, picking up the backpack. He watches him turn. He watches him as he notices Joe, still standing frozen in the shadows.  </p><p>In the faint light from the moon, his handsome face is a perfect picture of startled surprise for a moment, brows raised above wide eyes. Then he smiles.</p><p>“Hello, Yusuf.”</p><p>Joe stares. </p><p>It’s Matteo.</p><p>He’s not in his sharp suit anymore, but he’s still wearing all black - heavy trousers, a turtleneck and a jacket. A soft beanie hides his brown hair. He looks highly amused to see Joe up here too, wearing an almost identical outfit and carrying a backpack. </p><p>Putting down his own bag, Matteo steps closer, slow and casual. He moves differently now, with an almost feline shift of hips and shoulders which speaks of strength in repose. Joe stares at the familiar face, seeing his memory of this man from five hours earlier as if it were an overlay superimposed on reality. </p><p>The two men seem to coexist in front of his eyes: those broad hands he’d admired as they cradled a fragile champagne flute, effortlessly snatching bullet casings out of the air and dismantling a sniper rifle in less than fifteen seconds. The wide shoulders that had looked so good in crisp tailoring, comfortably cushioning the kick of the gun. Those same sea green eyes that had watched him with such complete attention across a polished tabletop, and suddenly that laser focus makes an exhilarating, terrifying sense. </p><p>Belatedly, he registers what Matteo actually said, and his mouth drops open. Nobody is supposed to know who he is, what he looks like. He doesn’t know this man from his life before the thefts started - he’s <em> sure </em>of it. He would remember. That means… well, he doesn’t know what it means, but he might be in the shit.</p><p>“You know me?” he stammers.</p><p>“I know <em> of </em> you. You’re Yusuf al-Kaysani. I recognised you at the party. I thought you might be there for the same reason I was. Well - perhaps not <em> exactly </em>the same,” Matteo amends, glancing at Joe’s backpack with another small smile, tinged with amusement. He takes another few steps closer. Despite the situation, Joe can’t help noticing that he looks unfairly good in this outfit. Not even loose combat trousers can fully conceal the muscles in his thighs. Combined with the dark jacket, turtleneck, and heavy boots, it makes him look dangerous - and sexy.</p><p>“Wait,” Joe says slowly, the part of his brain that’s still capable of processing information finally putting the pieces together. “<em>This </em> is your prior engagement?”</p><p>Matteo’s lips quirk apologetically, as if to say, <em> I’m sorry. It couldn’t be helped</em>.</p><p>“I won’t get in your way, if you won’t get in mine.” </p><p>Despite his words, he’s right in Joe’s space now, and Joe is struck again by how broad he is. They’re about the same height; in fact Joe thinks he might even be a little taller, but the width of the other man’s shoulders means he feels effectively boxed in all the same. It should feel threatening, but all it does is send an excited thrill down his spine. Matteo’s not making any threatening moves. In fact, he’s still smiling. His hooded green eyes are fixed on Joe’s face, pupils huge in the darkness. </p><p><em> Oh, al-Kaysani</em>, Joe thinks faintly, <em> you are fucked</em>. </p><p>Matteo blinks slowly, looking up at Joe from beneath his lashes. Joe can’t stop staring at his softly pursed lips, the little catch at the corner that he aches to touch with his mouth. While he watches, raptly, the smile fades and Matteo presses his lips together, reflexively wetting them with his tongue. His breath fogs between them. They lean forward at the same time and meet in the middle. </p><p>The night air is icy and Matteo’s mouth is cold, his lips just a little chapped, but he’s soft and pliant beneath Joe’s mouth. When Joe nudges his lips apart gently with his own he lets out a quick breath through his nose and presses in harder, sucking Joe’s lower lip between his teeth, and oh, his mouth is warm now. </p><p>Matteo rests a broad palm in the centre of Joe’s chest and pushes him gently back against the brick, further into the shadow of the great chimney. The brick and mortar are cold against Joe’s back; a creeping chill spreading slowly through the fabric of his jacket and pants, but against his front Matteo is hot as a furnace. They are pressed together almost head to toe, the hot mouth on Joe’s a searing shock in the frigid December air. </p><p>Joe curls his hands into the windproof jacket and tugs, wanting to be closer still. He runs a hand up the back of Matteo’s neck, rids him of the black beanie and slides his fingers into his hair, which is thick and soft to the touch. In response, Matteo ducks his head and nuzzles at the exposed skin between Joe’s collar and his beard. Joe startles, laughing breathlessly at the shock of a cold nose against his throat. Then Matteo’s hot mouth follows it, and his laugh dies on his lips.</p><p>Matteo draws back first. This is becoming a pattern, Joe thinks wryly.</p><p>“Are you really catching a plane tomorrow?” Joe’s not sure what makes him ask, except that some lucky star is clearly watching over him right now, and he’d be a fool not to make the most of it. He hears and feels more than he sees the quiet huff of laughter as it warms the side of his neck.</p><p>“Yes. Unfortunately, that part was true. But I had fun tonight.” Matteo’s voice is quiet, warm, with a touch of gentle irony that Joe finds unbearably hot. He feels himself grin. </p><p>“We should do it again sometime,” he says, before he can even think about what he’s suggesting. But the deadly sniper whose name is not Matteo just smiles, sphinx-like, and steps away. His hands linger, trailing down Joe’s chest as though reluctant to stop touching. </p><p>Finally, with the same decisive movement which Joe recognises from their parting at the gala several hours earlier, he turns aside fully and strides away, picking up his backpack and slinging it onto his shoulder. He’s halfway to the edge of the roof by the time Joe finds his voice.</p><p>“Wait!” he says quickly. The silhouette by the rooftop’s edge turns partway, his face catching the light. </p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“You have me at a disadvantage.” Joe tries his most charming smile. “You know <em> my </em>name... But I don’t know yours.”</p><p>“No.” Not-Matteo only smiles back, the corner of his mouth barely turning up. “You don’t.”</p><p>And then he swings his leg over the parapet and climbs down the very same fire escape which Joe was planning to use. Fifteen seconds later Joe hears the revving of a motorbike, and finally gathers himself enough to pick up his backpack and make his extremely belated escape.</p><p>*</p><p>On the night bus back to his house, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and frowns. He has a text. It’s not from Booker, or Andy. It’s from an unknown phone number - it looks like a mobile number, with an Italian area code. A cold sensation trickles down his spine, as though someone had cracked an egg on the top of his head. Opening the text, he finds a single initial, stark black pixels staring back at him from a white background:</p><p>
  <em> N. </em>
</p><p>He stares at the screen for several dumbfounded seconds before a slow smile spreads across his face. N, huh? </p><p>All right. That’s a start. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm on tumblr at <a href="http://likedestiny.tumblr.com">likedestiny</a>, come say hi!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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